by Andre Norton
And Val was becoming slightly bored with Louisiana, at least with that portion of it which immediately surrounded them. Charity was hard at work on her picture of the swamp hunter, for Jeems had come back without warning from his mysterious concerns in the swamp. There was no one to talk to and nowhere to go.
LeFleur had notified them that he believed he was on the track of some discreditable incident in the past of their rival which would banish him from their path. And no more handkerchiefs had been found, ownerless, in their hall. It was a serene morning.
But, Val thought long afterwards, he should have been warned by that very serenity and remembered the old saying, that it was always calmest before a storm. On the contrary, he was riding Sam’s horse along the edge of that swamp, wondering what lay hidden back in that dark jungle. Some day, he determined, he would do a little exploring in that direction.
A heron arose from the bayou and streaked across the metallic blue of the sky. Another was wading along, intent upon its fishing. Sam’s yellow dog, which had followed horse and rider, set up a barking, annoyed at the haughty carriage of the bird. He scrambled down the steep bank, drove it into flight after its fellow.
Val pulled his shirt away from his sticky skin and wondered if he would ever feel really cool again. There was something about this damp heat which seemed to remove all ambition. He marveled how Ricky could even think of trimming roses that morning.
Sam’s dog began to bark deafeningly again, and Val looked around for the heron which must have aroused his displeasure. There was none. But across the swamp crawled an ungainly monster.
Four great rubber-tired wheels, ten feet high, as he later learned, supported a metal framework upon which squatted two men and the driver of the monstrosity. With the ponderous solemnity of a tank it came on to the bayou.
Val’s mount snorted and his ears pricked back. He began to have very definite ideas about what he saw. The thing slipped down the marshy bank and took to the water with ease, turning its square nose downstream and sending waves shoreward.
“Ride ’em, cowboy!” yelled one of the men derisively as Sam’s horse decided to stand on his hind legs and wave at the strange apparition as it went by. Val brought him down upon four feet again, and he stood sweating, his ears still back.
“What do you call that?” the boy shouted back.
“Prospecting engine for swamp use,” answered the driver. “Don’t you swampers ever get the news?”
The car, or whatever it was, moved on downstream and so out of sight.
“Now I wonder what that was,” Val said aloud as his mount sidled toward the center of the road. The hound-dog came up and sat down to kick a patch of flea-invaded territory which lay behind his left ear. Again the morning was quiet.
But not for long. A mud-spattered car came around the bend in the road and headed at Val, going a good pace for the dirt surfacing. Before it quite reached him it stopped and the driver stuck his head out of the window.
“Hey, you, move over! Whatya tryin’ to do—break somebody’s neck?”
Val surveyed him with interest. The man was, perhaps, Rupert’s age, a small, thin fellow with thick black hair and the white seam of an old scar beneath his left eye.
“This is,” the boy replied, “a private road.”
“Yeah,” he snarled, “I know. And I’m the owner. So get your hobby-horse going and beat it, kid.”
Val shifted in the saddle and stared down at him.
“And what might your name be?” he asked softly.
“What d’yuh think it is? Hitler? I’m Ralestone, the owner of this place. On your way, kid, on your way.”
“So? Well, good morning, cousin.” Val tightened rein.
The invader eyed him cautiously. “What d’yuh mean—cousin?”
“I happen to be a Ralestone also,” the boy answered grimly.
“Huh? You the guy who thinks he owns this?” he asked aggressively.
“My brother is the present master of Pirate’s Haven—”
“That’s what he thinks,” replied the rival with a relish. “Well, he isn’t. That is, not until he pays me for my half. And if he wants to get tough, I’ll take it all,” he ended, and withdrew into the car like a lizard into its rock den.
Val sat by the side of the road and watched the car slide along toward the plantation. As it passed him he caught a glimpse of a second passenger in the back seat. It was the red-faced man he had seen with LeFleur’s clerk on the street in New Orleans. Resolutely Val turned back and started for the house in the wake of the rival.
By making use of a short-cut, he reached the front of the house almost as soon as the car. Ricky had been working with the morning-glory vines about the terrace steps, young Sam standing attendance with a rusty trowel and one of the kitchen forks.
At the sound of the car she stood up and tried to brush a smear of sticky earth from the front of her checked-gingham dress. When the rival got out she smiled at him.
“Hello, sister,” he smirked.
She stood still for a moment and her smile faded. When she answered, her voice was chill. “You wished to see Mr. Ralestone?” she asked distantly.
“Sure. But not just yet, sister. You better be pleasant, you know. I’m the new owner here—”
Val rode out of the bushes and swung out of the saddle, coming up behind him. Although the boy was one of the smaller “Black” Ralestones, he topped the invader by a good two inches, and he noted this with delight as he came up to him.
“Ricky,” he said briefly, “go in. And send Sam for Rupert.”
She nodded and was gone. The man turned to face Val. “You again, huh?” he demanded.
“Yes. And Ralestone or no Ralestone, I would advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head,” he began hotly, when Rupert appeared at the door.
“Well, Val,” he asked, a frown creasing his forehead, “what is it?”
The rival advanced a short step and looked up. “So this is the guy who’s trying to do me out of my rights?”
Rupert reached behind him and closed the screen before coming to the head of the terrace steps. “I presume that you are Mr. Ralestone?” he asked quietly.
“’Course I’m Ralestone,” asserted the other. “And I’m part owner of this place.”
“That has not yet been decided,” answered Rupert calmly. “But suppose you tell me to what we owe the honor of this visit?”
Now, however, the passenger took a hand in the game. He crawled out of the car, taking off his soiled panama to wipe his bald head with a gaudy silk handkerchief.
“Here, here, Mr. Ralestone,” he addressed his companion, “let us have no unpleasantness. We have merely come here today, sir,” he explained to Rupert, “to see if matters could not be settled amicably without having to take recourse to a court of law. Your Mr. LeFleur will give us very little satisfaction, you see. I am a plain and honest man, sir, and I believe an affair of this kind may be best agreed upon between principals. My client, Mr. Ralestone, is a reasonable man; he will be moderate in his demands. It will be to your advantage to listen to our proposal. After all, you cannot contest his rights—”
“But that is just what I am going to do.” Rupert smiled down at them, if a slight twist of the lips may be called a smile. “Have you ever heard that old saying that ‘possession is nine points of the law’? I am the Ralestone in residence, and I shall continue to be the Ralestone in residence until after this case is heard. Now, as I am a busy man and this is the middle of the morning, I shall have to say good-bye—”
“So that’s the way you’re going to take it?” The visiting Ralestone glared at Rupert. “All right. Play it that way and you won’t be here a month from now. Nor,” he turned on Val, “this kid brother of yours, either. You can’t pull this lord-of-the-land stuff on me and get away with it. I’ll—” But he did not finish his t
hreat. Instead, his jaws clamped shut on mid-word. In silence he turned and got into the car to which his counselor had already withdrawn.
The car leaped forward into a rose bush. With a savage twist of the wheel the driver brought it back to the drive, leaving deep prints in the front lawn. Then it was gone, down the drive, as they stood staring after it.
“So that’s that,” Val commented. “Well, all I’ve got to say is that Rick’s branch of the family has sadly gone to seed—”
“Being a southern gentleman has made you slightly snobbish.” Ricky came out from her lurking place behind the door.
“Snobbish!” her brother choked at the injustice. “I suppose that that is your idea of a perfect gentleman, a diamond in the rough—”
He pointed down the drive.
Ricky laughed. “It’s so easy to tease you, Val. Of course he is a—a wart of the first class. But Rupert will fix him—won’t you?”
Her older brother grinned. “After that example of your trust in me, I’ll have to. I agree, he is not the sort you would care to introduce to your more particular friends. But this visit seems to suggest something—”
“That he has the wind up?” Val asked.
“There are indications of that, I think. Something LeFleur has done has stirred our friends into direct action. We shall probably have more of it within the immediate future. So I want you, Ricky, to go to town. Madame LeFleur has very kindly offered to put you up—”
Each tiny curl on Ricky’s head seemed to bristle with indignation. “Oh, no you don’t, Rupert Ralestone! You don’t get me away from here when there are exciting things going on. I hardly think that our friend with the slimy manner will use machine-guns to blast us out. And if he does—well, it wouldn’t be the first time that this house was used as a fortress. I’m not going one step out of here unless you two come with me.”
Rupert shrugged. “As I can’t very well hog-tie you to get you to town, I suppose you will have to stay. But I am going to send for Lucy.” With that parting shot he turned and went in.
Lucy arrived shortly before noon. She was accompanied by a portion of her large family—four, Val counted, including that Sam who had become Ricky’s faithful shadow.
“What’s all dis Ah heah ’bout some mans sayin’ he am de Ralestone?” she demanded of Ricky. “De policemans oughta lock him up. Effen he comes botherin’ ’roun’ heah agin I’ll ten’ to him!”
With that she marched majestically into the kitchen, elbowed Letty-Lou out of her way, and proceeded to stir up a batch of brown molasses cookies. “’Cause dey is fillin’ fo’ boys. An’ Mistuh Val, heah, he needs some moah fat ’crost dose skinny ribs. Letty-Lou, yo’all ain’t feedin’ dese men-folks ri’. Now yo’ chillens,” she swooped down upon her own family, “yo’all gits outa heah an’ don’t fuss me.”
“They can come with me,” offered Ricky. “I’m trying to find that maze which is marked on the garden plans.”
“Miss ’Chanda, yo’all ain’t a’goin’ ’way ’afo’ yoah brothah gits through his wo’k. He done tol’ me to keep an eye on yo’all. Why don’t yo’all go visit wi’ Miss Charity?”
Ricky looked at her watch. “All right. She’ll be through her morning work by now. I’ll take the children, Lucy.”
To Val’s open surprise, she obeyed Lucy, meekly moving off without a single protest. One of the boys remained behind and offered shyly to take the horse back to Sam’s place. When Lucy agreed that it would be all right, Val boosted him into the saddle where he clung like a jockey.
“An’ wheah is yo’all goin’, Mistuh Val?” asked Lucy, cutting out round cookies with a downward stroke of the drinking glass she had pressed into service. The regular cutter was, in her opinion, too small.
“Down toward the bayou. I’ll be back before lunch,” he said, and hurried out before she could as definitely dispose of him as she had of Ricky.
Val struck off into the bushes until he came to one of the paths that crossed the wilderness. As it ran in the direction of the bayou, he turned into it. Then for the second time he came into the glen of the pool and passed along the path Jeems had known. So somehow Val was not surprised, when he came out upon the edge of the bayou levee, to see Jeems sitting there.
“Hello!”
The swamper looked up at Val’s hail but this time he did not leave.
“Hullo,” he answered sullenly.
Val stood there, ill at ease, while the swamper eyed him composedly. What could he say now? Val’s embarrassment must have been very apparent, for after a long moment Jeems smiled derisively.
“Yo’ goin’ ridin’ in them funny pants?” he asked, pointing to the other’s breeches.
“Well, that’s what they are intended for,” Val replied.
“Wheah’s youah hoss?”
“I sent him back to Sam’s.” Val was beginning to feel slightly warm. He decided that Jeems’ manners were not all that they might be.
“Sam!” the swamp boy spat into the water. “He’s a—”
But what Sam was, in the opinion of the swamper, Val never learned, for at that moment Ricky burst from between two bushes.
“Well, at last,” she panted, “I’ve gotten rid of my army. Val, do you think that Lucy is going to be like this all the time—order us about, I mean?”
“Who’s that?” Jeems was on his feet looking at Ricky.
“Ricky,” her brother said, “this is Jeems. My sister Richanda.”
“Yo’ one of the folks up at the big house?” he asked her directly.
“Why, yes,” she answered simply.
“Yo’ don’ act like yo’ was.” He stabbed his finger at both of them. “Yo’ don’t walk with youah noses in the air looking down at us—”
“Of course we don’t!” interrupted Ricky. “Why should we, when you know more about this place than we do?”
“What do yo’ mean by that?” he flashed out at her, his sullen face suddenly dark.
“Why—why—” Ricky faltered, “Charity Biglow said that you knew all about the swamp—”
His tense position relaxed a fraction. “Oh, yo’ know Miss Charity?”
“Yes. She showed us the picture she is painting, the one you are posing for,” Ricky went on.
“Miss Charity is a fine lady,” he returned with conviction. He shifted from one bare foot to the other. “Ah’ll be goin’ now.” With no other farewell he slipped over the side of the levee into his canoe and headed out into midstream. Nor did he look back.
Lucy departed after dinner that evening to bed down her family before returning with Letty-Lou to occupy one of the servant’s rooms over the side wing. Rupert had gone with her to interview Sam. Val gathered that Sam had some notion of trying to reintroduce the growing of indigo, a crop which had been forsaken for sugar-cane at the beginning of the nineteenth century when a pest had destroyed the entire indigo crop of that year all over Louisiana.
“Let’s go out in the garden,” suggested Ricky.
“What for?” asked her brother. “To provide a free banquet for mosquitoes? No, thank you, let’s stay here.”
“You’re lazy,” she countered.
“You may call it laziness; I call it prudence,” he answered.
“Well, I’m going anyway,” she made a decision which brought Val reluctantly to his feet. For mosquitoes or no mosquitoes, he was not going to allow Ricky to be outside alone.
They followed the path which led around the side of the house until it neared the kitchen door. When they reached that point Ricky halted.
“Listen!”
A plaintive miaow sounded from the kitchen.
“Oh, bother! Satan’s been left inside. Go and let him out.”
“Will you stay right here?” Val asked.
“Of course. Though I don’t see why you and Rupert have taken to acting as if Fu M
anchu were loose in our yard. Now hurry up before he claws the screen to pieces. Satan, I mean, not the worthy Chinese gentleman.”
But Satan did not meet Val at the door. Apparently, having received no immediate answer to his plea, he had withdrawn into the bulk of the house. Speaking unkind things about him under his breath, Val started across the dark kitchen.
Suddenly he stopped. He felt the solid edge of the table against his thigh. When he put out his hand he touched the reassuring everyday form of Lucy’s stone cooky jar. He was in their own pleasant everyday kitchen.
But—
He was not alone in that house!
There had been the faintest of sounds from the forepart of the main section, a sound such as Satan might have caused. But Val knew—knew positively—that Satan was guiltless. Someone or something was in the Long Hall.
He crept by the table, hoping that he could find his way without running into anything. His hand closed upon the knob of the door opening upon the back stairs used by Letty-Lou. If he could get up them and across the upper hall, he could come down the front stairs and catch the intruder.
It took Val perhaps two minutes to reach the head of the front stairs, and each minute seemed a half-hour in length. From below he could hear a regular pad, pad, as if from stocking feet on the stone floor. He drew a deep breath and started down.
When he reached the landing he looked over the rail. Upright before the fireplace was a dim white blur. As he watched, it moved forward. There was something uncanny about that almost noiseless movement.
The blur became a thin figure clad in baggy white breeches and loose shirt. Below the knees the legs seemed to fade into the darkness of the hall and there was something strange about the outlines of the head.
Again the thing resumed its padding and Val saw now that it was pacing the hall in a regular pattern. Which suggested that it was human and was there with a very definite purpose.